


My Disease

by sleepy_firebug



Series: The College Skater Punk AU [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, The College Skater Punk AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepy_firebug/pseuds/sleepy_firebug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case of mistaken identity puts college sophomore Matthew Williams right in the crosshairs of one of the campus bad boys.  And not quite in the way he could ever have expected.  Needless to say, Matt's quiet life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.</p><p>Chapters will vary in length and may eventually earn a Mature rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Disease

**Author's Note:**

> This is a teaser introductory chapter to a new AU work. The titles will be taken from various character-related songs throughout the story line. This one comes from '[My Disease](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s95wivb0Bas)' by Beyond Possession, which is Skater Punk.

Matthew had never been the kind to stick out or to garner attention. He was the constant wallflower, the kid at the back of the room that always managed to get forgotten in group activities and whom half of the professors couldn't even recall. But that sort of problem was one Matt had long gotten used to.

So when the wolf whistle rang across the college green as he walked by, he barely even paid it any attention. Trust some idiot to be out harassing the girls who were just taking advantage of the warm day to study, instead of doing something useful themselves. Matt rolled his eyes a little.

"Hey, pretty momma, is that a keg in your pants? Because I'd love to tap that ass."

 _What a jerk_ , Matt thought, shouldering his backpack a little higher as he kept on walking. Talk about cheesy. Some guys really didn't have a clue when it came to picking up girls, did they? Not that he would know... girls weren't exactly his forte. He was here to study, not to flirt, and even if he did he wouldn't have the first idea of where to start.

Suddenly someone appeared almost at his elbow, surprising him so much that he froze in his tracks. "Aww, you deaf, baby? 'Cause I can do some magical things with my hands that'd beat out sign language any day."

...What.

_You mean-_

Just like that his face lit up in a red almost brilliant enough to match his hoodie, and Matt slowly turned to face his harasser. There stood a red-haired guy about his height who wore the most self-assured smirk he'd ever seen, hands stuffed in scruffy low-slung pants and the rest of him covered in enough piercings and tattoos to make Matt draw back in alarm. He was one of _them_ , the rebellious, hard-partying skaters who loitered around campus as if they'd come to college to hang out instead of actually trying to earn a degree. A look of surprise flashed across the other's face as he finally got a better look at Matt, though the smile barely even faltered. "...You're not a chick."

"No shit, Sherlock," Matt grumbled, drawing himself straighter and silently praying that this didn't turn into a confrontation now that the punk had realized his mistake. He really had no desire to get into a fight, not over some idiot's desperate need to reassert his heterosexuality. No desire whatsoever.

But the stranger merely shrugged and scratched at the back of his head, nonplussed but clearly unconcerned. "Could've sworn you were from behind, with that fine ass and that long hair of yours. That was totally my bad, dude. But I still wouldn't mind fucking your brains out if you're game."

That was why Matt's first meeting with the infamous Al Jones ended with him slugging the guy right across his smirking face.


	2. My Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes they won’t let up and you’ve got to let ‘em down hard. Matt reaches the end of his patience and lays it out out plain and simple for the skater: _you’re just not my type_. Title taken from [My Loss](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tj2PNdJ3T-E) by 1208.

Al Jones was an asshole.

Not only did he yell at Matt across the college campus like a cheap hooker during their first meeting and end up with one angry Canadian fist to the face, but somewhere in his deranged mind he seemed to think that Matt was simply playing hard to get. Maybe Matt had scrambled his brains, maybe he was just too damn stubborn to give up, but for whatever reason he'd caught the blond's scent and would not back off.

He'd look up from his lunch in the cafeteria to find the redhead a couple of tables away with his loud-mouthed buddies, or pass him on the side-walk several times a day for no apparent reason. Al would be there in the downstairs lounge of his dorm and even occasionally in the library, looking terribly out of place amongst the rest of Matt's fellow nerds. Matt continued to flat-out ignore him and sometimes even leave the room, but nothing seemed to help. It finally got to the point where his room-mate even noticed. "Look, man," Carlos grumbled one day in that thick Cuban accent of his as they wound down together after class, "is everything alright? If you don't want that freak following you around, I know a few guys-"

"No, Carlos, I'm fine," he'd replied, face tucked behind a biology textbook as he tried to hide his burning cheeks. No matter how much how much he tried to ignore Al, the other still seemed unwavering in his pursuit. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or worried. "He'll get bored eventually. I'm not _that_ interesting."

But the days turned into weeks, and eventually Matt had to face the fact that somehow he'd captured the attention of the rough-and-tumble skater. If he wanted to get this particular problem to go away, he would have to face it head-on.

Strangely enough, Al beat him to it.

He'd been leaving his dorm on his way to the cafeteria for dinner when a fist grabbed the front of his hoodie and yanked him from the sidewalk, pulling him into the shadows beside the building. The only thing that kept him from screaming was the hand that ended up clasped over his mouth, a fact which left him glaring icy daggers at his captor. "Don't bitch at me now," Al muttered, red eyes darting around the courtyard in case they had company. "I just wanna talk, clear the air and shit. Will you be quiet if I let go?"

Matt nodded. He'd be quiet, all right, right up until the point where he kneed the bastard in the groin and started shouting explitives. Just because he was quiet didn't mean he didn't have a sharp tongue.

"Good." Easing up on his grip, Al let him slip out of his grasp. "Look, I know that we might not have started out on a good foot, but there's no need for all of this homophobic bullshit. If you're not into guys, just tell me, okay? Just because I think you're hot doesn't mean I'm gonna stick around if you're about two steps away from going Westboro on my ass."

"Homophobic bullshit?" Was he freaking serious? Matt couldn't keep his mouth from dropping open as he stared at the other, who returned his shock with a steely gaze. _Really? I've got two dads, more gay friends than straight ones, and I can't exactly lay claim to any amount of 'straightness' myself, so how on earth...?_ Was he really that much of an idiot at reading others? "What the hell, man. Al, my parents are gay. I'm the farthest thing from homophobic that you'd find. I'm just not interested in you."

Al's lips parted in an 'o' as realization dawned, some of the tension immediately going out of his shoulders. "...Oh. I guess I just thought that you were avoiding me 'cause you were, like, some sort of fag-hater."

"No, I'm avoiding you because you're crude and don't seem to know how to take a hint!" Matt snarled, raking his fingers through his hair. "Have people actually responded to those kinds of advances before? I mean, don't get me wrong, dude, if you're just into fast and easy then all the power to you, but I'm not. I've got priorities like school and a career, and you're just... what are you even studying? All I see you and your buddies hanging around and hear about the girls you've fucked and the drugs you've scored through the college grapevine! If I was even interested in a relationship at this point, it sure as hell wouldn't be with someone like _you_!”

Maybe he should have held his tongue, but Matt was beyond frustrated at this point. Al simply blinked at him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher but had a feeling might be bordering on hurt. Shit. “Look, man. I'm sorry, okay? Maybe if things were different... I'm sure you're a decent guy deep down, but you're just too immature for me to be able to take seriously, and I don't want just a casual fling.”

Something flickered in the red-head's gaze, then. “...Communications.”

“What?”

“...I'm studying communications.”

Matt nodded after a moment. “Alright, good luck with that. But please, stop following me around, because it's not going to happen. Go find someone else to mess with, eh?” With that he turned on his heel and stalked off, completely and utterly finished with their brief conversation. Maybe that would be enough to get Al to back off and stop distracting him. Maybe now the idiot would get that he just wasn't interested and move on. He didn't need this kind of bullshit, not when he needed to focus on his degree.

So lost in his thoughts, Matt didn't see the way Al stared after him as he left, lips turned down in a pensive frown.


	3. Everytime I Look For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Matt thinks he's escaped any more dealings with that darned skater punk, it seems as though the universe tosses them right back together again. And this time, there's no easy escape. Title from [Everytime I Look For You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUO997Ya47s) by Blink 182.
> 
> (Note: Viktor Braginski = 2P!Russia, Alan Kirkland = Scotland)

Just as quickly as Al bulldozed his way into Matthew's life, he was gone.

Matt couldn't tell if it had to do with his words, or general disinterest, or even if the red-head had found someone else to stalk, but Al Jones simply... disappeared. Not that Matt was complaining; far from it. At least he didn’t feel a need to keep peering over his shoulder any more. He made it through the rest of his sophomore year without seeing much of the other man, and the quiet summer spent with his family soon wiped the memories from his mind.

But like a bad card in the hand of an unlucky gambler, Al was bound to show up again.

It began with a boot, a worn, black military boot with brightly-colored laces that landed squarely atop his calculus homework while Matt sat working on the campus green one bright fall day. When its appearance didn't garnish an immediate reaction, its owner slid the foot forward, crumpling paper beneath the sole. Matt's narrowing gaze rose to meet a face bearing a wide grin, the sort of grin that didn't seem to meet its owner's odd red eyes. “'Bout time you looked up, Blondie,” the young man sneered, giving the notebook one last shove that sent the paper tearing. “Don't you know that it's rude to ignore somebody?”

“Don't you know that it's rude to step on other people's stuff?” Matt shot back, grabbing his homework and vainly attempting to salvage it. “What the hell, man, I don't even know you!”

“Psh, everybody knows Gil Beilschmidt, dumbass. Everyone who matters, at least. You're Matt Williams, right?”

“...So what if I am?”

The other man shrugged, his rough appearance making the gesture look that much more threatening. The tattoos that curled up his arms to disappear beneath the torn sleeves of a Rammstein t-shirt didn't help either, the brilliant ink a sharp contrast to his ghostly white complexion and hair. "No real reason. Just thought I'd stop by and see who you were, say hello, and then kick your-"

"Gilbert." Another voice grated from behind Matt, a deep, heavily-accented voice tinged with warning. The blond swallowed and fought the urge to turn around and confront the newcomer. Great, now there was another one. "You are being rude."

"Fuck all of you, I ain't rude," Gil groused, arms crossing over his chest in what a more confident man might describe as a sulk. "I just wanted to meet the piece of ass who's got Indy all tied up in knots."

He might as well have been speaking German for as much as Matt understood the situation unfolding around him. He didn't know these guys, and he certainly didn't know anybody named 'Indy'. "Who the hell...?"

"Aww, c'mon, you're American, you know who I'm talking about."

Matt bristled. "For your information, I'm  _Canadian_. And I haven't a damned idea who you're talking about, so why don't you go bother somebody else, eh?"

Gil's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don't tell me what to do. It ain't my fault you're stupid."

"He is referring to Alfred Jones," the rough voice behind him interjected in the slow, patient rumble of a man far too used to redirecting the other's harsh words. Matt took a chance to glance back and found himself seated in the shadow of a human mountain. He wasn't easily cowed, but the man standing back there in the black trench coat had to be easily a half a foot taller than him and was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Copper blond hair tipped in black fell around a round, unsmiling face, though the kohl-rimmed crimson eyes that stared back at him sparked with amusement. "It is one of many nicknames he has given our dear friend. Apparently there is a story behind it, something about a ridiculous American movie, though even I do not know the full extent of it." His gaze flickered back up to the fuming albino. "Forgive him for his rudeness. He is... how do you say it? Concerned."

"I'm gonna spike all of your vodka with Draino if you don't shut your goddamned Ruskie mouth, Viktor," Gil spat, stomping across the grass to grab him by the scarf wound around his neck in spite of the warm weather. "I don't give a damn where Jones sticks his dick, but I do have an issue when some bitch has him pussy whipped!"

Okay, enough was enough. Scrambling to his feet, Matt abandoned his calculus homework in favor of meeting this problem head-on. "You couldn't have it more wrong," he scoffed. "Al and I aren't involved. I haven't even seen him since the spring semester! I don't know where he is, what he's doing, nor do I care. And I certainly don't have him 'pussy whipped', because contrary to popular belief,  _I am not a girl_." 

"You sure as hell ain't," a familiar voice piped up. It was none other than Al Jones himself, the bane of his sophomore existence and the idiot behind this whole confrontation, sauntering onto the green as if he owned it and wearing the same smug grin that left Matt wanting to deck him. Again. "C'mon, Gil, is your eyesight going or something? Usually you can spot a fine pair of tits a mile away, and he sure as hell doesn't have 'em. Why are you bugging him, anyway? I thought we had a date."

 "I just thought I'd meet the bitch who's got you all distracted lately," Gil grumbled, fixing Matt with a disapproving frown. "You keep skipping parties on me so that you can study, man... all 'cause of something  _he_  said. It ain't right."

Well. That was an unexpected development. But as unexpected as it might be, it didn't have a damned thing to do with him. All of his frustration with the entire situation finally overpowered his mental filter, and the words bouncing around within his skull suddenly burst from his mouth. "So? Maybe he's finally realized that he can't coast by on his parents' money and might actually have to finish his degree. Have you ever thought of that?"

Dead silence. If he'd thought there was dislike in the albino's eyes before, it had nothing on the venom glowing there now. "Fuck. You. You goddamned over-privileged piece of trash-"

 "Shut up, Gil," Al cut in, though the joviality in his voice sounded a bit... off, as though the jab had struck a chord. "I don't need you jumping to my rescue like I'm still some sort of a little kid, or trying to ruin my reputation by hinting that I might have gotten  _responsible_. Now c'mon, I thought we had plans."

 "...Yeah, we did." The grin that spread across Gil's face was all teeth and entirely for Matt's benefit; he slapped at Al's ass, earning himself laughter and a return shove from the red-head. "The best kind of plans, too. Let's go. Later, losers!"

With that the two skaters turned and left Viktor and Matt there on the green with Matt's torn homework decorating the grass around them like so much confetti. Matt squatted down next to it with a groan and stared dejectedly at the mess. There went an entire afternoon, wasted. But there was little he could do about it now. Piece by piece he gathered up bits of paper and shoveled them into his knapsack, and just as he was about to pull himself back to his feet and find a safer place to start over, a hand appeared before him. "Here," the giant murmured. "I will help you up."

"Thanks. I think."

"You are welcome." He tugged Matt back onto his feet as if he weighed little more than a doll -an unsettling fact that he tried not to think on too much- and began to systematically dust off his shoulders without an ounce of emotion showing on his face. "Gilbert is rough, but he is not bad. Neither of them are."

"He's got a funny way of showing it." Grabbing his bag and hefting it over his shoulder, Matt gave the other man a wary glance. So this was another of Al's friends, huh? He wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He looked like the kind of guy who could easily break somebody over his knee like a toothpick, but usually couldn't be bothered to work up the effort. "So, uh, it's Viktor, right? I don't think we've met before."

 Viktor hummed in agreement, tucking his hands behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet as he pinned Matt with his unwavering gaze. "Viktor Braginski, yes. It is a pleasure to finally meet the one that Alfred always speaks of. I am not as threatened by you as friend Gilbert is, for I do not believe that you plan to 'steal him away'. In fact, I am not even sure that you like him."

 "I hardly even know him," Matt corrected. "There's no way I could decide one way or the other, though he's making a pretty good case against himself by continually acting like an ass. Does he really think he can lure people in with that winning personality of his?"

 There was that flicker of amusement again. "It appears to work well enough for him," he replied. "Though I do not think that he understands why you are adverse to it. Perhaps that is why..." His voice trailed off. "Ah, it is no matter, for as you said, you do not care. Unless you  _would_  like to get to know him better?"

 Matt shook his head. "No, not really. No offense, but we don't have anything in common." He made a show of looking at his watch, needing an excuse to escape from the increasingly awkward situation. "Look, I've got a meeting with one of the guys I tutor in about half an hour, so I'd better get going. It was... nice to meet you, all things considered."

 "I suppose so," Viktor mused, his dark eyes seeming to bore through Matt with a knowing gaze. "Perhaps we'll meet again under more pleasant circumstances, yes?"

 * * *

Matt hadn't been lying about the tutoring thing, just... stretching the truth a little. The last student he'd been helping had ended their tutoring sessions and left him in need of a replacement, since the part-time job worked out well for him on a whole lot of levels- it got him some extra spending money, kept the bio classes he needed for his major fresh in his mind, and also kept him in his uncle's good graces.

Alan Kirkland was the head of the Biology Department at Matt's university, and as the brother of one of his adoptive fathers, he'd vouched for his nephew's acceptance into the program and even helped him get discounted tuition as a family member. While Alan and his father bickered like cats and dogs at the best of times, Matt had always had a soft spot for him. That fondness had only grown when they'd realized that he wanted to follow in his uncle's footsteps into the environmental science field, and it had quickly become commonplace for the quiet blond to linger around Professor Kirkland's office in his free time to help grade assignments or do other odd jobs.

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon roughly a week after his run-in with Al's friends when Matt slipped into Alan's office, a coffee in each hand and a bag of doughnuts tucked beneath one arm. The burly man behind the desk peeked up over the rims of his glasses, took one look at him, and burst out in hearty laughter. "Lost another one, have we, lad?"

"Yeah," Matt replied, rolling his eyes even as his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Somewhere along the line he'd gotten into the habit of arriving with bribes in hand every time he'd found himself in need of another tutoring job, though they both knew that Alan would have found him something else regardless. "But in my defense, this one actually called me and told me that he didn't need any more help. It's not my fault that most of the others seem to forget about me or common courtesy and just stop showing up."

"Aye, especially when it's a proven fact that you're good at what you do," Alan soothed in that familiar Scottish brogue of his, slipping the glasses from his face and tucking them away before grabbing one of the coffees his nephew had brought with him. "I wouldn't keep recommending you if I didn't have complete faith in your work."

"Thanks," Matt sighed, flopping down in the chair across from him.

"How's the family?"

"Same as always, I guess. Dad's nearly done his newest book, I think, so he's driving Papa nuts. You know how he is when he's got a deadline coming up. And Papa is thinking about expanding the shop, last I heard." Matt's fathers were an interesting pair: Arthur Kirkland-Bonnefoy wrote the sort of literature that one kept stuffed beneath their mattress to hide from curious eyes, while Francis Kirkland-Bonnefoy ran a prosperous bakery in the same quiet Ontarian suburb where Matt had grown up. Apparently there had been some sort of rivalry between them in their younger years that had surprised everyone -including the two of them- when it blossomed into a romance that was still going strong over two decades later. It was the kind of sappy love story that Matt secretly hoped to find himself enmeshed in someday, if he was lucky. "Amelia is still trying to decide between college and the Air Force, though, so that's making everything really tense at home. She really wants to head back down here to the States and enlist since she's still got dual citizenship, but the very mention of it is enough to send Dad into fits. I'm sort of glad that I'm not there right now."

"Your da always was a little overprotective with you two," Alan replied, settling back in his chair to prop his feet up atop one corner of the desk. "I wouldn't fret over it too much. Amelia is going to do whatever she bloody well likes, anyway."

"You're telling me," the younger man grumbled. "She's always been the rebel. I'm always stuck being the peacemaker, and it sucks."

"At least she hasn't dyed her hair green and run off to another continent with some Dutch artist who'll only leave her stranded in Quebec at the mercy of 'some damned French poof'."

The familiar reference to his father's youth never failed to make Matt smile, a common story often brought up at Kirkland family reunions to tease the hell out of Arthur. "Point taken," he chuckled, fishing a doughnut out of the bag before pushing the rest of them across the desk towards his uncle. "It's pretty funny sometimes, to know that no matter how much trouble we might get into, it has nothing on what Dad probably did."

"Aye, your da was and always will be a right brat," Alan replied good-naturedly. "But enough of that. You didn't come down here to hear me jabber on about us old men, did you? You'll be wanting another job." The professor tucked his hands behind his head and stared idly up at the ceiling, losing himself in thought for a moment. "...Would you care for something a bit more challenging, lad?"

Challenging? "Maybe? I mean, I guess it depends on what makes it 'challenging'."

"Mm." The springs of Alan's office chair creaked as he rocked back a little farther in his seat. "It's sort of a complicated tangle, to be perfectly honest. I just had a student transfer into my department who's in need of some guidance. He's here on one of the full-ride disadvantaged student scholarships, but he's nearly two semesters behind to graduate within the time frame his scholarship covers and to top it all off he's been letting his grades slide. It's a real shame since he's actually a bright lad when he's not fucking around. I don't recall the last time I saw SAT scores over 2100, but he had 'em."

Matt could feel his jaw drop. "No offense, Uncle Alan, but somebody like that doesn't need tutoring. If anything, he could tutor  _me_!"

"That's why this one is a challenge, my boy. It's not so much academic study that this one needs, but someone his age that can mentor him, kick his arse into gear, that sort of thing. He's at risk of losing his scholarship if he doesn't get his damned act together, and I told him as much this morning." The professor sighed and steepled his fingers atop his stomach. "Of course I can't say too much about his personal situation for privacy reasons, but the boy's had a real rough start at life, and he's finally got a chance to make something of himself. I don't want to have to be the one to tell him that he can't. My sole requirement for his admittance into the program is that he'd be put on academic probation through the end of the term while he brought his grades back up to an acceptable level. If he doesn't, then I'll be forced to cut him loose."

"Wow," Matt muttered, the doughnut laying forgotten in his hand. So the older man wasn't kidding when he said that this was more of a challenge than his previous jobs. "What's his new program, then?"

"Biology with an emphasis in pre-med."

It was Matt's turn to stare contemplatively up at the ceiling. This wouldn't be easy, not if what his uncle said was true, but Matt had always been too compassionate for his own good. Besides, this semester wasn't too busy for him, so what would it hurt? "Well, I..."

"Ah, I knew I could depend on you!" Pulling a folder from his desk, the professor sent it sliding across to him. "There's his contact information, class schedule, and the goals we've set to get him back on track. He's promised to be cooperative and pay you for your time just like any other tutored student, so if you have any trouble with him, you just let me know and I'll get him sorted out. I've taken the liberty of scheduling your first meeting with him tomorrow afternoon."

The young man grabbed the manilla folder and flipped it open, curious to know who he'd be working with.

And stared.

For scrawled atop the first sheet in his uncle's spidery handwriting was the name  _Alfred F. Jones_.


End file.
